One of Those Days
by patemalah21
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is frustrated. He is having one of those days when nothing seems to go as planned. One Shot story in honor of Mattsloved1's birthday.


_A/N This story is a birthday fic. for the lovely Mattsloved1. Happy Birthday dear and please enjoy_.

_**One of Those Days**_

"Where are you going this early?" John asked as he looked up from his first cup of tea.

Sherlock rushed across the room grabbed his coat and scarf and headed for the door. He paused long enough to exclaim, "Case!" With a whirl of his coat tails he vanished through the door and clattered down the steps.

John smiled a whimsical smile to himself and shifted to a more comfortable position. He wasn't due at the clinic for another hour and a half. He wondered idly if the loaf of stale bread on the counter was too far gone to make decent toast.

**ɸ**

In the back seat of the cab, Sherlock Holmes gritted his teeth. This was ridiculous, what should have been a thirty minute ride to the scene of the crime was now approaching an hour and they still had quite a distance to go.

"Can't you make this cab go any faster?" Sherlock growled.

"Sorry sir." The cabbie apologized. "It's the traffic lights. Something is off with their timing."

It was true. They didn't have to stop at every intersection, but it seemed as if the cab attracted more than its fair share of red lights which each seemed to stay red for an extended amount of time.

"Can't you just go through them? I'm in a hurry!"

"That wouldn't be wise sir. Not only would it be dangerous with this amount of cross traffic, but I could loose my license," the cabbie apologized again.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Thirty minutes later they arrived at the crime scene. Sherlock could see that something was wrong right away. Pieces of yellow crime scene tape still fluttered in the breeze, but there was no sign of Lestrade or any of the forensics team.

"Wait here," Sherlock instructed the cabbie and strode across the street and up to what evidently had been a crime scene.

A single policeman was supervising a tech who was bio-cleaning up blood from the pavement. The young constable, an obvious new recruit, looked up as Sherlock approached.

"Where is everyone?" Sherlock demanded.

Officer Peevy frowned. "Who are you?" he inquired in a very authoritarian voice. "There is nothing here for you to see. Best be moving on." The PC turned his back and began watching the clean up man do his job.

Sherlock scowled. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and pressed Lestrade's number.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade here," there was a slight pause then Lestrade's voice changed to a friendlier tone. "Oh hello Sherlock. Your ID didn't pop up at first. Did you get my message?"

"No."

"Oh, well. Sorry about that. Mobile service is erratic today. Something in the atmosphere I suspect. We solved the case. You are not going to believe this, but Anderson found a blood trail that lead to the perpetrator who was collapsed behind a skip in the alley. He was nearly unconscious when we found him."

"Anderson is always nearly unconscious," Sherlock growled, pissed that Anderson of all people was the one to solve the case.

"What? No!" Lestrade clarified. "The perpetrator was almost unconscious, not Anderson! There was a long pause then, Hey that's funny! The perpetrator confessed to killing his buddy over an argument about football. Case closed. Sorry to bother you."

"Do you have anything else for me?" Sherlock asked in a snappish tone.

"What did you say? Yo-brea-up-amn pho-yo-ater." Lestrade's broken voice came over the phone.

Sherlock looked at the screen. The indicator said it had a full charge. He frowned and pocketed the phone and turned to leave, then realized t he cab was gone. Heaving an exasperated sigh he started walking. Eight blocks later he managed to hail a cab. Once again, the cab seemed to time the traffic lights so that the journey was excruciating long and tedious. Once back to Baker Street he decided he was not going to venture out again that day. He opened the outer door to 221 and was greeted by Mrs. Hudson, his landlady.

"Oh Sherlock! You are just the person I need to see! I need help!"

"What do you need Mrs. Hudson? I'm rather busy today." He lied smoothly.

Martha Hudson gave him her most pitiful smile. "Oh, well, in that case I'll just have to manage on my own somehow." She turned her back and started to hobble slowly and painfully toward her apartment.

Sherlock gave a deep sigh. He did have a soft spot for his landlady and she was obviously in a great deal of pain. "Do you need me to take you to your doctor?" He asked.

"Oh no dear! Nothing so drastic! It's my hip you know. If I could take one of my soothers and lie down a bit I would be right in no time. It's just that I need a cake I baked delivered to a friend before one o'clock." She looked up at Sherlock in hopeful expectation.

Sherlock sighed again, " What is the address?"

Mrs. Hudson beamed happily, "Oh you are such a dear! I just knew I could count on you!"

She limped back into her flat and handed Sherlock a large rectangular cake decorated with all shapes of party hats drawn creatively with icing. Personally Sherlock thought the cake was rather gaudy, but he supposed it was festive enough to celebrate what ever occasion was required.

"Now be careful, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson warned. "It's for Ida Smedley's daughter, ML. It's her birthday!"

"Her daughter's name is ML?" Sherlock asked with a puzzled tone.

"Oh that's just what everyone calls her dear." Mrs. Hudson said brightly. "You know, I don't believe I actually know her real name, it's probably something dreadful like Morella Lynn or Myrtle Lou. Oh well, no matter. Here's the address and be sure to ring the bell more than once, Ida is a little hard of hearing."

Sherlock crinkled his nose, grabbed the paper with the address and frowned at his landlady.

"You had this all planned out." He accused. "Otherwise you would not have the address already written out."

Martha Hudson looked up with a guileless expression. "Now why would you think that my dear? Perhaps I better not impose on your good nature. I'm sure I can manage some way." She limped forward in a move to take the cake back.

"Oh, never mind," Sherlock grumbled turned and walked away with the cake. He did not see Mrs. Hudson's mischievous smile as he left.

Forty-five minutes later found him standing outside the door of a townhouse in a modest neighborhood. He impatiently buzzed the doorbell for the third time and looked around. He didn't dare leave the cake on the doorstep, but he was loath to cart it all the way back to Baker street to face the wrath of his landlady. What to do? Holding the cake in his left hand, he slipped his right hand into his pocket, looked around and then pulled out a lock pick. Balancing the cake rather precariously on his arms he used his hands to work the lock. A minute later he heard the tell-tale snick of the lock releasing and he pushed open the door and walked into the house.

He placed the cake on the table in the entryway and was about to turn and leave when he heard a low growl behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw what at first appeared to be a throw pillow on the couch move and jump down. It faced him and growled again. At least he thought it faced him. The mop like creature's face was so squashed looking it was hard to determine which end was the front. He hated dogs, nasty, smelly things, especially the over bred kind like the one before him now.

"Oh, hello!" An elderly lady called as she hurried from the back of the house. "You must be Sherlock! Martha called and said you were coming by with the cake. Did I leave that door unlocked again? Oh dear, I must be more careful. I'm rather forgetful you know."

The whole time the lady chattered away. The dog kept edging nearer to Sherlock. Its growls became louder with increasing menace.

"Oh isn't the cake lovely!" Ida Smedley gushed and moved closer to Sherlock in order to take a better look. The mop-mutt took that as a need to step up aggression and began barking and snapping at the detective's feet.

"Madam, would you call off your dog?" Sherlock asked in an aggrieved tone.

"Oh don't mind Muffy, he wouldn't hurt a fly!" Mrs. Smedley said as Muffy attacked and proved he indeed had a face under all the hair as he sank his sharp little teeth into Sherlock's ankle.

Sherlock let out a surprised yelp and kicked his foot in a effort to dislodge the dog, resulting in a ripping sound as the trouser material gave way and the mutt went sliding across the hardwood floor.

"Muffy!" cried Mrs. Smedley as she rushed to her precious pup. "Are you okay? You didn't hurt yourself did you Snookums?" the old lady crooned as she cradled the dog in her arms.

Sherlock scowled, flipped up his coat collar and left in disgust.

**ɸ**

Back at Baker street finally. Sherlock changed his trousers, throwing them into the bin. Damn dog ruined his favorite pair! He had just settled down in front of his microscope when his mobile chirped, identifying an incoming text. It was from Molly Hooper. His pathologist at

Bart's.

_**I hve dan intestg ni bod yo mi=ghs lxi to ook qj. Mlly**_

Sherlock frowned at the obscure message and rapidly fired back.

_**Molly you need to work on your typing skills. What kind of body? SH**_

_**orry, sext nd cllis aer m]!sthng op tidae oody is mesing a krsru! Mully**_

Sherlock sighed. more phone problems! He hoped whatever was going on was soon fixed. This was most irritating! He sent a reply and hoped for the best.

_**Will be right over. SH**_

Sherlock had no idea what a missing krsru looked like, but if Molly had texted him about it, it was probably worth the trip to Bart's to find out.

**ɸ**

Sherlock breezed through the doors of the morgue and stopped in his tracks. The morgue was empty. Not only was Molly not there, there was no evidence that the pathologist had even been there at all this day. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and fired off a rapid text to Molly.

_**I'm in the morgue, where are you? SH**_

_**Thnk God, Sherhyek I've be n tring to peach you. I'm ot th) clinic. Ther ws sn acsident. I thi?k he's dying! Mlly**_

Sherlock stared at his phone in horror.

_**John? John is dying? I'm on my way. SH**_

_**No ot that clinc. Teh anima[ clinc in Soho. Ii'r n#t John. Ii'r Toby. He gt run iver! Moljy**_

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. Damn this signal interference. Molly was hard enough to understand at the best of times. Toby was dying? John was okay?

_**You almost gave me a heart attack. SH**_

_**Sory. Bit li'r alm:ust ax bad. Tob\e may nut mke it. Mooy**_

Sherlock huffed to himself. The darn cat was a horrible pet. On the few occasions he had been near it, it had hissed and arched its back at him. It was a most disagreeable animal and Sherlock could not see why Molly put up with its offensive behaviors. He fired off one more text.

_**You can always get another cat. I'm going back to Baker street. SH**_

**ɸ**

Sherlock settled into the back of the cab and fumed. What a wasted day. Nothing was going right. His moblle chirped. Now what? Pulling it from his pocket he brightened considerably when he saw it was from John.

_**Got a patient here with an interesting story you might like to hear. He is willing to discuss the matter with you if you are free. It's at least a seven. JW**_

Sherlock grinned. Finally! Something interesting! And apparently the texting glitches were repaired.

_**On my way. SH**_

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock swept into the clinic where John worked and demanded to see his doctor friend.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock," Sarah Sawyer said as she came out of her office. "Something came up and John had to leave. He said he would explain it all to you when you get to Baker street."

Sherlock pushed through the exit doors in a huff. Another wasted effort! This day was not getting better.

He stood on the curb for almost five minutes before a cab pulled over. Sherlock sighed. He had definitely lost his cab hailing abilities along with everything else that was out of sorts today. He almost didn't get into the cab when he recognized the overly cautious driver from that morning.

"Hello guv!" The cabbie grinned. "Fancy seeing you again. On your way home? Well come on then, climb in."

Sherlock sighed at the man's overly cheerful face. Evidently at least one person in London had had a good day today. He slipped into the back seat, gave the driver his address and settled back to gaze out the window. If he had any more days as frustrating as this one had been, he was going to go crazy. He though seriously about asking the driver to take him to a pub. He rarely drank but the frustrations of the day seemed to beg to be drowned in a good whiskey. He decided against the idea mainly because with the way things had been going today, it was hard to say what might happen if he became a little tipsy. Visions of waking up tomorrow and finding a wedding ring on his hand and Molly Hooper at his side decided the issue. He was definitely going home, lay on the couch and go straight to his mind palace. It was probably the only safe place to be. His thoughts were interrupted by his mobile buzzing in his pocket. Now what? He scanned the screen. Mycroft! He punched the phone harder than necessary.

"What do you want Mycroft?"

"Hello dear brother." Mycroft Holmes's smooth voice responded. " How is your day? Busy, I imagine? Have you noticed that the phone service has been rather disrupted today?"

Sherlock's mind flashed through several scenarios before coming to a conclusion. "Mycroft, are you the reason the phones have been out of sorts today?"

"Whatever do you mean, dear brother?"

"You remind me or an old black and white American TV series John is addicted to called the Outer Limits. It was all about a master mind controlling technology just like you like to do." Sherlock spat out.

"Temper, temper Sherlock." Mycroft said soothingly. "I just called to let you know that the phone problems have been resolved. Everything is back to normal."

"You even sound like the last lines of each episode_: __We now return control of your telephone to you. Until next week at the same time..."_ Sherlock mimicked.

"That's ridiculous." Mycroft retorted.

" I imagine since the whole thing was your doing, it was fairly easy to fix," Sherlock said.

"Actually dear brother, I rather think you will be surprised at who was behind this day's frustrations. Of course, when I found out what was going on, I insisted on doing my part. See you soon," Mycroft hung up.

Sherlock spent last few minutes of the ride thinking about the days events. At first he was simply furious. How did they dare treat him like this! They were supposed to be friends! Then his sense of humor kicked in and he realized the effort that had gone into this day. He found in a very odd way, he was flattered.

When the cab pulled up in front of 221, Sherlock took the time to shake the cabbies hand after he paid him.

"Well done," He congratulated the driver who grinned appreciatively. Sherlock bound up the stairs to his flat and opened the door to a chaotic scene.

"APRIL FOOL!" was shouted at the tops of lungs. Horns blared, noise makers rattled. Confetti and streamers were tossed into the air. On the coffee table was the blasted cake Sherlock had carried halfway across London.

Everyone was there, Lestrade, John and Sarah, Molly and a very healthy Toby., Mike Stamford, sat beside Mrs. Hudson and her friend Ida Smedley. Sherlock looked about quickly before deducing the woman had the sense to leave the vicious Muffy at home. Even Constable Peevy was there, looking rather out of place beside Mycroft, who saluted his brother with his whiskey.

The noise died down and everyone looked at Sherlock expectantly and just a little fearfully. Sherlock knew he was expected to say something. His mind raced to find just the right words.

"I wish to thank you all for such a..." he paused for an uncomfortable moment, "for such a memorable day. I can truthfully say I was not bored."

A collected sigh of relief escaped from his friends and Sherlock realized he had answered in the correct manor. He hadn't been sure.

"Shall we cut the cake?" Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully.

"By all means Mrs. H., I sure Mycroft would love a piece. Perhaps one with a jester's hat?" Sherlock smirked. He looked at his older brother.

"There were no actual phone problems then."

Mycroft shook his head. "Quite unnecessary as everyone was in on the joke, they just pretended poor service. The traffic lights were my gift however. I do hope you appreciated them."

Sherlock grimaced in memory. "Quite, brother. I assume the cabbie was one of your men?" At Mycrofts nod, Sherlock continued. "I will not soon forget your efforts of this day"

He collected a whiskey from Lestrade who was manning the impromptu bar. After a few moments of quiet conversation he left a slightly worried Lestrade and walked over to the couch where John, Sarah and Molly were sitting. Squeezing himself down between John and Molly, Sherlock looked sternly at his flatmate.

"I suppose this was all your idea," he glared mildly at his friend.

"Well, actually, the honors go to Molly here," John said. "But I helped with several of the details."

"Molly?" Sherlock's eyebrows threatened to jump off the top of his head. "Quiet, shy, retiring Molly had come up with this torturous day?" Sherlock could hardly believe it.

Mrs. Hudson walked past and leaned down to whisper loudly, "Still waters run deep, Sherlock. It's the quiet ones you have to watch the closest. They'll get you every time."

"Quite so, Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps I need to reevaluate my pathologist." He pursed his lips and stared at Molly until she grew beet red and excused herself to the loo.

After a while, Sherlock looked over to his flatmate.

"This is calling for retaliation next year," Sherlock said so softly that no one but John could hear. "I have several scenarios thought out already, but I will require an accomplice, are you game?"

John, quite relieved to be asked to be an accomplice rather than the victim, readily agreed to help. Sherlock nodded pleasantly and smirked to himself. John was way too gullible.

HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!


End file.
